Among the Savages

"I say, Champion!"

"What is it, Hardings?" The Professor was grappling with a native of immense stature.

I ducked under the swipe of a machete. "Why do you suppose they call it a pitched battle?"

There was a muffled oath, followed by the crack of bone.

"Call what a pitched battle?"

My opponent, a rather ugly fellow, had me up against the hut now, his machete whacking off chunks of bamboo from the wall as I dodged to and fro. I had been preparing to retaliate, but Champion's query stopped me in my tracks while I tried to formulate a coherent reply. My foe saw his chance and drove in for the kill.

"What I mean to say is..." I dropped to the ground, rolling into my attacker's legs. He hurtled head first into the wall, knocking himself unconscious.

I sprang to my feet. "...what makes a battle a pitched battle?"

Having a bit of breathing space, I checked in on Champion. Two men lay at his feet. The third, though, seemed to be giving him his money's worth. As Champion is fond of relating (at some length, I might add), he had the occasion to study the fighting disciplines of the Orient during the world-spanning excursions of his youth. As with most things to which he puts his remarkable mind, not only did he master these arcane arts, but also improved upon them. In keeping with his temperament and sense of decorum, he favored those styles which produced the greatest effect with the minimum amount of effort. The manipulation of certain nerve clusters to induce paralysis, for example.

The present engagement, however, provided little opportunity for such niceties and Champion's adversary had wrapped him in a bear hug, nearly lifting his lanky frame off the ground. This had no effect on the Professor's willingness to pontificate.

"The term 'pitched battle,' my good man," he grunted while chopping his hand like an axe into the savage's neck, causing him to stagger but not release his grip, "originally indicated an engagement in which both sides met at a time and place agreed upon previously." Here he paused again to address his assailant. I know not what he did for I had trouble of my own in the form of a young lad, not more than sixteen years of age, who nevertheless wielded a nasty looking axe. Wrenching a bamboo support from the hut's canopy, I blocked his blow and gave him a sharp rap on the head. I've always been a bit of a whiz with the quarterstaff and this untrained youth clearly possessed more enthusiasm then skill. Still, enthusiasm goes a long way when one is armed with an axe. I struck a defensive posture.

Meanwhile, Champion picked up the thread. "The Battle of Edgehill, for example, in 1642." Though I couldn't spare him a glance, I could tell from his tone that he had regained the upper hand. His speech was accompanied by the grunts and groans of his opponent. "One could argue that the redeployment of the Royalist troops from the advantageous hilltop position they originally occupied constituted a virtual invitation to do battle."

This last sentence was punctuated by a resounding thud as his enemy fell to the ground.

"But why 'pitched'? I nevOWWW"

The lad chose this moment to alter his attack and fetched me a savage slash across my left shoulder. Momentarily enraged by the pain, I dropped my inhibitions about fighting such a stripling and attacked with renewed vigor. Champion, taking on the role of casual bystander, explained.

"Well, that's a bit more difficult. Clearly, it relates to the transitive sense, as in 'to set, or place.' The military connotations are readily apparent, as I'm sure you have heard of an army 'pitching camp.' The etymological origins are less certain, however. It's possible that it's from a causative formation of the Old English 'pick,' though...

I admit at some point I stopped paying attention to the Professor. There are levels beyond which some of us never progress. In any event, I had been driving my young foe backwards in Champion's direction. He was proving more resilient than I had though possible, although that could be accounted for by the imbalance in the armaments at our disposal. Still, I was on the verge of administering the final blow when Champion reached out and touched the young man gently just where the neck meets the shoulder. The boy froze, his eyes wide, axe held aloft, then toppled over backwards.

I stood staring at Champion, breathing hard.

"There was no need for that, you know."

"It seemed preferable to inflicting violence on children." Tearing a strip of cloth from the shirt of one of the prostrate men at his feet, he began expertly binding my wound. "There are times when violence is best countered with its opposite. In my youth, I may have mentioned, I studied the ways of the Orient and, in particular, their methods of unarmed combat. It's fascinating, really..."

He was interrupted by the crash of the front gate and the blood-curdling shouts of the tribesmen as they erupted into the compound. I raised my eyes to Heaven, gave a quiet expression of gratitude and turned to Champion.

"It would seem reinforcements have arrived," I declared as the horde descended upon us. "Perhaps it is an opportunity to put your assertion to the test."

"Indeed," answered Champion with a wry smile.

We turned and ran.